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The first thing that registers in Majima Gorohachi’s mind is keen surprise that he’s alive.
He’s not quite sure why this is so shocking, until he takes a breath in and pain lances up his flank like he’s being torn in half. The left side of his head throbs, a deep burning sensation mauling his tenuous consciousness, and he mewls out in confusion.
“Ah. Ya ain’t quite kicked the bucket, huh? Good, ya won me a bet.” A broad man is hovering in his periphery. Majima gets a fractured view of his current dwelling—sunlight filtering in between rotting timbers and dappling across the moss on the walls, a thin pile of fabric scraps under his aching body soaked deep crimson, a bowl of broth on a wobbly table. And, the man. The sunlight catches on his hair, the length tied back in a high ponytail and dark bangs framing his craggy features, and a thick coil of chain is looped around the waist of his simple green kimono. There’s a gruffness to him in tone and posture, but his eyes are—soft isn’t the word for it, but that’s all Majima’s rattled brain can supply.
“Haw?” is all he manages to say in return, and even that utterance makes his parched throat crackle.
“Easy now, soldier. Don’t waste my good work by rippin’ yerself open again.” The man chuckles and kneels down beside Majima. He pats a damp rag against the dried blood on the side of Majima’s head and hums approvingly at the sutured skin underneath—angry red, but no signs of infection. “Who are ya, anyhow? Don’t see a lot of ya military types down here in the foothills.”
“I’m—” Majima starts, but when he reaches for his name he finds a gaping hole worse than his gouged eye. Majima Gorohachi is nothing more than a random assortment of syllables to him. “...I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”
“Mm. Musta smacked yer head awful hard. Well, not much to be done ‘bout that right now. I’m Shishido Baiken.” He extends a gourd to Majima’s lips, his tied-back sleeves highlighting his brawny arms. “Drink.”
Majima expects water or broth, but is instead hit by a bracing shot of hard liquor. He hisses from the burn in his throat.
“It’ll help the pain. Best I can do for ya right now.” Shishido says, by way of explanation.
With the sunlight haloed around Shishido’s head and his vision swimming, Majima thinks the man looks otherworldly. Some strange yokai playing with its food. A heavenly deva in humble garb. A ghost still making amends for his past crimes.
Exhaustion and booze catch up to him before he can ponder his new companion’s features further. He manages to croak out a quiet “thank you” before his remaining eye falls shut and he’s trapped in a murky labyrinth of violent dreams.
*****
There’s unfamiliar voices outside the shack Majima is convalescing in. He reaches for a weapon that’s not there and bites back a groan when he pulls at his barely knitted flesh. Son of a bitch. With great effort he scooches across the floor and presses his ear to the wall, but the bandaging around the ruined crater that was once his left eye muffles the sound too much. He carefully twists his body to press his opposite cheek to the planks and watches through a tiny gap in the mouldering wood.
“...found ‘im a little ways from here.”
Shishido is talking to two men in bright red armor—the same as what Majima had woken up in initially. He pats absently at his chest. How many days ago did he get stripped down? Time is fuzzy to him still, long stretches of pain and mind-numbing boredom as he’s left alone.
“Alive?”
“Nah,” Shishido shrugs, and Majima’s shoulders go tense. “He got pretty smashed up from what I could tell. Missin’ an eye, whole lotta blood, his guts goin’ every which way—pretty gruesome thing. I stripped his armor before I buried him though, couple o’ the pieces seemed like they could be worth a lil cash.”
A wet, lumpy sack passes from Shishido’s hands to the soldier’s. They peer inside, faces pale and drawn in disgust.
“Ah, sorry, I ain’t washed the gore off any of it yet.”
There’s a dry humor to his words that seems to be missed by the two unfortunate men.
“We’ll take this to confirm his death.” One of the soldiers gives in and pinches his nose shut. “Thank you.”
“Hey now, no reward or nothin’? That’ll teach me to be cooperative, eh?”
The sturdier of the two soldiers sighs and passes over a few coins from his purse. Shishido grins widely and pockets them.
“Pleasure doin’ business, fellas.” Shishido waves as they leave.
A centipede crawls up through the wood, myriad legs skittering across Majima’s cheek before he can jerk himself back, and he slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle his surprised yelping before he blows his cover. A nauseous beat passes after the centipede is frantically batted off his face, then he moans pitifully from the pain of the sudden movements. It’s loud enough to turn Shishido’s head, and for him to shoulder into the shack before Majima can return to his nest of bandages and itchy sheets.
They stare at each other, Shishido’s eyes flicking across the catalog of Majima’s freshly agitated wounds, and Majima’s eye flicking to the kusarigama on Shishido’s hip.
“Why?” Majima asks blankly.
“They don’t send rescue parties for missin’ soldiers in your state.” Shishido says quietly, and fusses with the logs in the fire pit.
Majima’s stomach twists. He hadn’t considered why he’d wound up near dead this far from any of his comrades. Not for the first time, Majima traces the lines of his past and finds he doesn’t like the shape he’s supposed to occupy.
“They’d have yer head if they knew.”
“If I handed ya over I’d have to give back the cash I won on your survival.” Shishido dips a long wooden spoon into the broth bubbling over the fire and transfers it to a wooden bowl. He sets it beside Majima before spooning a second helping for himself. “Eat. Otherwise you’ll make an honest man outta me.”
Even the small chuckle the comment provokes makes Majima hiss in pain.
*****
Majima still doesn’t know many things about himself, but he knows he’s restless as hell. He draws himself up on shaky fawn legs and sweat beads across his arms from the effort, but he’s mobile enough to limp out the door for the first time in weeks, if not months.
“Look at that. The soldier can walk.”
Shishido pauses where he’s splitting logs, stripped down to the waist in the post-rain mugginess. Majima eyes him warily, still catching a twinge of breathless anticipation in his movements whenever he sees the man’s bicep flex—waiting for the axe to fall and split his skull as some barbaric punchline.
There’s a few wan faces shifting among the trees. Steely gazes take measure of the interloper, sizing him up as a foe or as a victim. Majima’s heard enough fragments of conversations to put some pieces together.
“You’re thieves?” Majima nods curtly at the weapons at the men’s hips and the stained, mismatched clothing spread among them.
“Aye. Ya figured us out.” Shishido wears the same stern countenance Majima has grown used to, but his brow creases a hair deeper than usual. “Ain’t like you’re in any position to bitch about it.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ to.”
Majima pushes his messy hair out of his face and worries at his lip. He’s got no memories to work off of for a destination—hometown, friends, family, lovers, whatever he had is lost to him. He gets the feeling that he had very little to lose. An uncomfortable pang grips him.
Shishido claps his thick hand on Majima’s shoulder, keeping him braced when the jostle threatens to topple him. “I hope ya weren’t thinkin’ of runnin’, neither. Ya got a debt to pay off.”
“You want me? As part of your gang?”
“Whether or not I want ya don’t matter.” Shishido keeps his gaze fixed on the treeline and his expression flat and inscrutable. “This is just the way things hafta be.”
The dizzying labyrinth of potential trajectories for his life in the near future collapses down to a single unavoidable line, and a weight lifts from Majima’s shoulders.
“A life’s a big debt to pay. I might be here a while.” Something like a smile flickers across Majima's lips.
Shishido grunts, and resumes chopping wood.
*****
Recovery is still slow. His body remembers how it’s supposed to move, mostly, but lacks the muscles to make it happen. He sticks with his fists for a while, until he can build himself back up with wiry muscle, but he can feel the limitations of bare-knuckle brawling already pressing in on him.
“How come ya use that thing instead of a sword?” Majima asks as he watches Shishido sink the kusarigama’s curved blade into a distant branch and yank it down.
“Swords are expensive ‘n’ fragile. I can make one of these out of scraps nabbed from any ole farmhouse.” Shishido spins and puts his titanic strength into whipping the weighted end of the chain through the trunk of a tree with an explosion of bark and splinters. “Plus, there’s a hundred guys who’d be better than me with a sword, but put this kusarigama in their hands and they’d end up guttin’ themselves ‘fore they ever managed to swing it proper at me.”
“Teach me?”
Shishido pauses as he reels his chain back in and looks Majima up and down. “Alright, soldier. Let’s see whatcha got.”
Majima takes the kusarigama and bounces the hefty chain in his hand. Shishido makes it look easy, just a casual flick of his wrist and the chain leaps obediently towards his foes.
Majima’s first attempt is pitiful.
After Shishido’s done laughing at him, he steps behind Majima and corrects his form, one hand guiding his hips and his warm chest pressed against Majima’s back.
“Ya gotta think of yourself as part of the weapon. If ya try to make it do all the work it’ll be weak as hell, you gotta use yourself as the counterweight to get any real oomph.” Shishido grabs hold of Majima's wrist and puppets his arm through the motions, nudging Majima’s ankle along to shift his stance. “That’s how this life works. Ya want somethin’, ya gotta take it for yerself.”
Majima’s next attempt goes better.
That earns a grin on Shishido’s face. The sight of it makes Majima’s grip falter, and he drops the heavy weight on his own foot.
*****
“Where’d ya find that hideous thing, man?” Shishido laughs. “Don't tell me ya actually paid for that.”
Majima clicks his tongue and holds his arms wide, letting the fresh snakeskin of his new kimono dangle from his arms. “‘Course I paid for it! Fine work like this deserves compensation.”
“We’re thieves, dumbass,” Shishido snorts.
“Robbin’ people’s your thing. I’m just in it for the fights,” Majima waves him off. “Besides, snakes are lucky. Can’t besmirch that with an unscrupulous acquisition.”
“Those snakes sure weren't.”
“Whaddya mean? Now they get to live on through me!”
Shishido’s face twists up into something fond. It sets Majima’s heart up into his throat and he reaches for the chain at his waist.
Shishido mirrors him with a small laugh. “Oh? Got yourself some fancy duds ‘n’ now ya wanna be the top dog?”
“Ya want somethin’ in this life, ya gotta take it for yourself.” Majima squares his stance and readies for the clash, fiery glee starting to simmer his blood.
Shishido swings first, as expected, and Majima hops the chain and ducks the follow-up. His own weapon flies true but is easily deflected by a quick flash of Shishido’s scythe.
They continue trading glancing blows and Majima finds himself losing ground; every attack he manages to land is responded to threefold by Shishido’s masterful economy of motion. One slip-up and Majima’s chain is caught by Shishido and jerked out of his hands after a brief struggle, then launched back at him with devastating accuracy.
It drops Majima to his knees. Shishido steps in close, thick thighs dominating Majima’s field of vision, and he peers down at his subordinate. “Not bad, soldier. Keep fightin’ like that and we’ll both have a lotta fun. Ya might even get what ya want, someday.”
Majima’s body aches, but it’s a pleasant sort of burn. Nothing like the splitting agony he’d been stewing in. He finds himself absently pressing on a tender spot on his thigh where Shishido’s weighted chain had smashed into him.
He’s almost too preoccupied to notice the hand up Shishido’s offering him.
*****
The moon is fat and brilliant in the night sky, bathing the world in its soft, unearthly glow. Majima spots Shishido sitting amid a thicket of susuki grass on top of a hill, the fluffy seedheads tickling up against each other in the gentle breeze. He’s placed a long tuft between his teeth and is looking contemplatively out across the twisting valleys dotted with slender trees.
“Tonight’s a drinkin’ night, boss.” Majima says as he shakes the gourd in his hand, the strong sake sloshing inside. “I kept some of the good stuff we stole off that merchant.”
“Mm.” Shishido rumbles, but when Majima passes the gourd to him he takes a long swig.
They sit in silence for a long while, passing the gourd back and forth. Majima squints up at the stars—were they easier to see when he had two eyes? Is it better to know what he’s lost, or simply enjoy what he’s got? He hasn’t quite settled on an answer yet.
Shishido’s gone flushed with alcohol and tucks his knees up to his chin. He pulls his ponytail free and runs his fingers through his hair until the kink in it relaxes, then turns his head towards Majima.
“Some folks spend their whole lives in a lil speck of the woods like this, raisin’ chickens or makin’ charcoal or whatnot. Just livin’ off the land.”
Majima leans back on his hands and tries to picture it: eating the same food day in and day out, sleeping in the same bed, his heart rate staying low and feeble. Just the two of them stuck in some remote cabin.
His old wound throbs—it’s too much like his recovery for comfort.
“Sounds boring.”
Shishido gives him an appraising look. The corner of his lip turns downwards, a brief flash of teeth in the moonlight like he’s going to speak, but then he turns his gaze to the moon instead.
“Tonight sure is a drinkin’ night, soldier.”
*****
The grounds outside the rural estate are quiet save for a few dying moans. Majima wipes a hot smear of blood off his cheek and steps between the fresh corpses he’s left in his wake. Not bad for the inaugural run of his new snakeskin kimono, he thinks. It suits him. Takes to being splattered in viscera well.
There were some strong fighters today, and it’s put Majima in a good mood.
“Ever think of movin’ in closer to a city? Edo, Kyoto, Osaka… lotsa rich folks to pilfer from there.” Majima asks as he pulls open a wardrobe and rifles through the assorted fabrics. In truth he couldn’t care less about the financial gain and just wants to face the higher caliber of fighters that a major population center would yield, but he knows what makes for a better sales pitch when there’s mouths to feed.
“You from one of those?”
“Mm. Don’t think so. Maybe.”
Shishido shakes his head. “We do plenty good out here fer now. I reckon I’ll breathe my last right here in the foothills and let the dogs settle my bones, anyways.”
Majima doesn’t like thinking about that. Facing death doesn’t bother him; he lives for the thrill of the fight and blood soaking the ground, the howling of men and the thumping of his heart against his ribs. The way Shishido’s talking sounds like a foregone conclusion. A battle he’s not willing to fight—or not able to.
“How ya gonna manage a gang as a corpse?” Majima asks, stuffing a set of fine earthenware cups into a wad of batting and down the front of his kimono. “Honestly, I ain’t sure how ya manage them now.”
“Runnin’ the gang’s a bit like lookin’ after kids. Gotta keep ‘em outta trouble, ‘n’ discipline ‘em right.”
“I hope ya ain’t thinkin’ of me as yer kid.” Majima scoffs.
“Heh.” Shishido knuckles against his arm. “I just told the boys yer my right hand. They need a rough bastard like you to keep ‘em in line.”
“Shit, they’re my kids too, now? At least get me a ring.”
Shishido rolls a corpse over with his foot, the man’s slack face gaping in horror and a line of wet, tacky gore splits him from the join of his shoulder to the armpit, then curves back again to his hip. His still-sheathed blade’s hilt was cracked by the blow; Shishido fishes it out and with a few quick movements he pries the tsuba free, wipes the splattered blood onto his obi, and tosses it to Majima.
“Somethin’ to replace that ratty-ass eyepatch ya got,” Shishido grins. “Can’t have my second in command lookin’ like a bum.”
Majima’s face twitches with some amorphous emotion. He ties it around his head, and tries not to think too hard about it.
*****
Sparring has become as routine as butchering pheasants for meat or scrubbing blood-soaked clothes in the river. Majima invents a reason to mouth off or start swinging, and Shishido responds in kind.
Today’s excuse is that Shishido uncharacteristically swiped Majima’s stash of booze, which is a far more genuine reason than most. He would have preferred if the man asked, and then they could have fought for it like civilized men. Instead Majima has to confront Shishido in a dimly lit cave and the man jumps into the fight quicker than Majima expects.
The flickering torches make it hard to keep track of the chains, and after an exhausting back and forth volley Majima catches a nasty slice across his shin that staggers him. He sees the way Shishido’s lips quirk up in triumph, the familiar motions that will put Majima flat on his ass, and he braces for the impact.
Shishido’s swing goes wide and smashes into the wall of the cave, shattering the blade of the kama.
“...‘the hell was that?” Majima pauses.
“Nothin’,” Shishido blinks, then waves him off. “Slept funny and my back’s complainin’.”
Majima narrows his eye and watches the tremor in Shishido’s hand. It’s familiar, the twitchy sort of spasms Majima felt when his body had been torn to shreds.
He doesn’t expect Shishido to lower his shoulder and ram into him, though, the man eschewing finesse entirely and pinning him under pounds of muscle.
“Yer hands are shakin’.” Majima wheezes out as Shishido squeezes his fingers around his throat.
Shishido grits his teeth. “If ya noticed that, ya shoulda won.”
*****
Majima slips through the darkness like a wraith. The embers of the fire have long since gone gray and cool, the dilapidated shack as still as a crypt. Majima hovers above the thin cushion that Shishido’s slumbering form resides on, straddling the man’s beefy arms that lie sternly crossed across his chest even in his sleep. The glint of the moon off the short dagger in Majima’s sweaty palm highlights the veins in the man’s thick throat.
Majima’s not sure what’s compelling him to do this. He doesn’t hate his life here—on the contrary, he loves the feeling of letting loose, shrieking with glee and fury as he descends on his victims. He respects Shishido immensely, owes him his very life, and yet, here he is, blade at the ready. Just to prove he can, maybe.
It feels like an old instinct.
One of Shishido’s eyes cracks open and appraises the situation. His lip quirks up into a faint smile and he speaks silky-slow. “Nice job soldier. I’m yours for the takin’, now.”
Majima’s breath hitches—Shishido’s always got him figured out better than he knows himself. He tosses the dagger aside, lets it clatter against the floor of the run-down shack he first woke up in, and presses a frenzied kiss to Shishido’s lips as he sinks his hands into the man’s hair.
Shishido kisses him back just as intensely, his rugged hands latching onto Majima’s hips and pulling him in closer.
This may not be his body’s first time, but it's certainly his first time.
Majima pulls Shishido’s kimono open and wriggles free of his own while Shishido’s hands roam his body, then unwind their respective fundoshi.
The cool night air hits Majima’s flushed skin and he shivers.
“I’ve been lookin’ for a man like you my whole life,” Shishido murmurs as he rubs his thumb across the messy thatch of dark hair concealing Majima’s crotch.
“That why ya saved me, ya perv?” Majima laughs, straddling one of Shishido’s muscular thighs and slowly grinding his shiny cock against Shishido’s. “Ya can't get laid unless ya saddle someone with a life-debt first.”
“We both know yer debt’s long since been cleared.”
Majima stills his hips and looks down at the man beneath him. In his earliest memory he sees Shishido looming above him, haloed by sunlight. A guardian spirit, ethereal and distant. Now, drenched in moonlight and shadows, he’s painfully human. A man made of flesh and blood, sinews straining with worldly desires, and Majima keeps groping the comforting bulk of him to remind himself that this is real.
“I’ll decide when I’m done payin’ ya back, Baiken.”
Majima resumes thrusting, his short cock dragging against Shishido’s slick entrance. It’s sloppy and unfocused, both sides grunting like they’re wrestling, chasing whatever friction they can get and pawing at each other.
Shishido tilts Majima backwards and drags his tongue along the puckered scar that crosses Majima’s belly, then travels north to nip at his nipple. Majima groans and claws at the man’s back in response. His heart is hammering in his chest like it might burst, a liquid heat pooling in his belly. Shishido lifts one of Majima’s arms above his head and licks a hot stripe up from the crease of Majima’s pec to the soft hair of his armpit, and Majima writhes under the electric sensation.
“Fuck, Baiken—” Majima groans as his hips stutter. He never would have known to ask for this treatment, had no clue that Shishido stuffing his face in his pit would be so hot.
“My name sounds damn good on your lips,” Shishido pants out between long swipes of his tongue. “Wish I could do the same fer you.”
“Let’s get hitched,” Majima says airily. He’s teetering on the edge of orgasm, his cock aching inside the soft embrace of Shishido’s folds. “I ain’t got one to give, so I’ll have to take yer name.”
Shishido grunts and shifts his focus, kissing up Majima’s throat, his jaw, the scarring along his temple. He unclasps Majima’s eyepatch and kisses the mess of scars there, too.
“Take it then, Shishido.” He grins and presses his lips to Majima’s.
The orgasm that rattles Majima is the biggest in memory and, he suspects, the biggest of his life.
*****
“So yer porkin’ the boss, huh?”
A gawky new recruit sidles up to Majima and speaks in a poor imitation of Shishido’s drawl. He’s tall and whip thin, a mild overbite giving him a toothy smirk. Behind him one of the gang’s longtimers wavers and wrings his hands, his round, perpetually worried face going tighter than Majima has ever seen and his scuffed jingasa wobbling on his head.
“Yeah,” Majima says simply.
“He bendin’ ya over, or are ya the top dog once ya hit the bed? Cause I sure wouldn’t mind nailin’ that sweet ass of his—”
“Minami!!”
“—or those tits!” Minami barrels through his statement before turning around to face his scandalized companion. “What?? I'm just shootin’ the shit with uhhh… What’s yer name again?”
Majima glances towards the river and spies Shishido leaned against a tree with a bemused smirk on his face.
“We fight for it. Winner tops.” Majima says, ignoring the question he doesn’t have an answer for. He puts his hands on his cocked hips, projecting both annoyance and smug superiority.
“Well shit, might as well just say yer the bottom bitch, right Nishida?”
“Do not get me involved in this conversation.” Nishida blanches and grips his naginata against his chest like a talisman.
Majima’s gaze slides back over to Shishido. He’s got his mouth hidden behind his hand, his eyes crinkled in laughter. Minami follows his gaze and after double-taking stands ramrod straight.
“B-Boss! I was just—I'm sorry!” Minami throws himself to the ground. “Please forgive me!!”
Shishido wends his way over while Minami shivers in fear, sweat dripping from his forehead. He rolls his neck and stretches his shoulders, then kicks Minami in the ribs. “Get yer nose out of the mud, kid.”
The young man nearly springs off the ground, and Majima bites back a laugh. Shishido grabs Minami firmly by the shoulders and looks him in the eye.
“As far as you’re concerned, his name is sir, yes sir.”
“Y-Yes boss! Yes sir!!”
“Good. Now go haul those crates of sulfur we grabbed into the cave.”
Minami has the good sense to only groan a little. He bows his head and sets off to perform his assigned manual labor, and Nishida trails behind him.
“We got some dumbass kids.” Shishido shakes his head. “What a pain in the ass.”
“Ya big softie. Ya coulda killed him for that.”
“True. But then I woulda had to lug that crap myself.”
*****
Majima’s not blind, but he’s been pretending to be. It’s easier to remain blissfully ignorant than to confront the obvious: Shishido is not well.
The man doubles over and shakes with a terrible hacking cough. Bright blood seeps from the corners of his mouth and flecks spray onto his palm.
It’s too much to ignore, even if Majima would still like to.
“You okay there, Shishido?”
“Bah.” Shishido says, and wipes the blood from his mouth onto the hem of his kimono. “I’ll still keep on kickin’ for a while, but no one lasts forever. That’s the beauty of life, eh?”
Majima hums noncommittally. A gust of pink sakura petals tickles his neck, freshly fallen from the tangle of cherry trees Shishido’s gang had sprung an ambush from. It had been one sided and boring, and Majima is left feeling bitter about the whole affair.
“Feels like fate, findin’ ya out there on the brink of death. And I’ll find ya again, in some other lifetime. However many it takes.” Shishido clasps his hands around Majima’s and squeezes it against his chest so that Majima can feel his heart beating. “I ain’t had near enough time with ya yet, friend.”
“Baiken…” Majima’s lip trembles and a few tears escape him. “Ya better give me more time, next go around. I hardly got to enjoy ya.”
“As if anyone could stop ya from takin’ what ya want.” Shishido smiles, and it’s so handsome it hurts.
*****
Six months after burying Shishido Baiken, after saying a prayer for his savior, his lover, his friend, after taking his name, the new Shishido Baiken relocates the gang to the tunnels outside of Kyoto, and a new-old friend wanders into his life.
Kiryu Kazumanosuke tries to give Shishido an old, unfamiliar name, and Shishido rebukes him. Maybe at some point he was Majima. Maybe back then he would have been glad to return to that name. Now, he’s got a promise to keep.
No matter how many poultices and medicinal tinctures he stole he couldn’t keep Shishido alive, and he had no awful foe to strike down with righteous grief in a grand display of affection, but he can live as Shishido, and he can make sure he keeps himself breathing a while longer. Get the name all the respect it deserves. Let it settle into his soul so deeply that their bond will never quite get wiped clean, a matched set of syllables linking them together.
And when his flesh returns to the dirt, he’s sure they’ll meet again in the next life. Shishido Baiken isn’t one to break a promise.